


for the gaps we have to fill

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:19:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4991680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of things. - Kyungsoo/Jongin, Chanyeol/Jongin</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. parts per billion

**Author's Note:**

> This is a compilation of the tiny things I wrote since 2013 to early 2015. Orphaning immediately with pseud for easy access. Hope you'll enjoy!

**Title:** parts per billion

 **Summary:** It’s the night where they’ll never meet again. – Kyungsoo/Jongin

~O~

 

The knife plunges deeper into his chest.

They are in a dark alleyway. Kyungsoo doesn't see the coal black eyes glittering with malice, doesn't hear the hasty footsteps of the executioner galloping away, doesn't feel the blood drain from the tips of his fingertips to the edge of his mouth — in fact, in the last precious minutes there is emptiness, a cold, stale brandy of nothing.

In between serrated edges and Jongin's body is Kyungsoo’s heart, and it’s the happiest ending there ever could be.

The world spins and it sweeps him off his feet, his head pounding and free-falling towards the cement; Jongin is too stunned to react on time, and Kyungsoo's body slumps against the rough, wet pavement. The rainwater from yesterday seeps through his aviator jacket – he doesn't feel it still.

Jongin kneels before him, holding his cheeks. His face crumples into one of absolute despair, and it's strange because they're strangers, two uptown pedestrians, both at the wrong place, wrong time. So Kyungsoo bleeds through the small hole in his chest, bargaining for more time for a person he has never met.

Tears come in rivulets. Jongin will never know Kyungsoo's name.

And somewhere in his last ten seconds Kyungsoo hopes that there would be a place he'd be going to. Maybe not heaven, maybe not hell. But something, somewhere. When the rust from the knife sets in maybe he won't be gone. Maybe a part of him will still linger, subatomic dusts cast across the air. A petal blowing across the wind. A drop in the rain.

Jongin takes his hand as his breath comes in gasps.

"Hello," Kyungsoo says in the end. 

 

~O~

 


	2. at the dining table

**Title** : At The Dining Table

 **Summary** : One hot summer dinner, they realize that they taste better together — Kimchi Spaghetti/Fried Chicken, side!Kyungsoo/Jongin

 

~O~

It isn’t the first time that their makers have left them alone.

Caught in the middle of the boys’ perverseness, there is one plate full of Italian pasta smothered with tomato sauce and grilled meat, sprinkled with cheese that is more than what a usual person would prefer. One thing peculiar about it is its toppings: a strange mixture of lettuce and scallions, baked around a fork that is left barely touched.

And from the other side is a lone piece of chicken thigh, fried — and apparently not delighted as it rolls to and fro with the tide as the table shakes with unbelievable speed.

In between soft, innocent kisses over the table that turned into hot gasps and shudders, their creators have forgotten that they should be devouring _something_ for dinner, and not _someone_ , but the kimchi spaghetti and the chicken can’t say anything.

The two objects just sit next to each other with only their plates touching, unable to bring themselves closer.

Suddenly a jerking motion coming from the bronze-skinned boy as he undresses his lover tosses the fried chicken from its plate, and it spins and rolls down on top of the unsuspecting mass of kimchi spaghetti.

It’s a good night for both of them.

~O~


	3. Endgame

**Title:** Endgame

 **Summary:** There’s a stranger on the subway who can’t seem to decide which shoulder to put his sleepy head on. To Kyungsoo, it’s a challenge. – Kyungsoo/Jongin

 

~O~

 

The subway tunnel looks eternal from where Kyungsoo is sitting, matching front row benches overlooking the railways buzzing with worn static. About eight people are waiting to aboard the next train, all wrapped in dark hues for the freezing weather except for one homely grandmother sporting a tote bag on her arm. She has a luscious pink scarf coiled around her neck like a cobra, biting away the cold.

Kyungsoo buries himself on his coat, hunching. The lights are dim, akin to sunspecs from a lamp on a nightstand. The lethargy sinks to the soles of his shoes, making his doe orbs droop dangerously. 

A pendulum-like motion springs at the corner of his eye, so abrupt that it jerks him awake, and a tell-tale grin enraptures Kyungsoo’s face when he sees the stranger beside him. The boy’s head is swinging violently from Kyungsoo’s side and to the next, mumbling a few sleepy litanies.  He must have dozed off to dreamland already, Kyungsoo thinks. Lucky him.

The boy sports a cap, lowered to his eyes, so Kyungsoo can’t see much of his face. But his lips are full and his skin is golden and, when curious Kyungsoo turns his gaze elsewhere, there’s a strong build of muscle on the person’s forearms and thighs.

Kyungsoo decides to turn his attention to the front, then.

Gravity’s starting to take over again —the boy is starting to lean sideways. Automatically, Kyungsoo’s whole body goes rigid, waiting for the impact, for the boy’s seemingly soft head to land on his shoulder —

The boy catches himself during midfall. With his eyes closed, he straightens himself, muttering something under his dazed breath, so muted that Kyungsoo doesn’t hear.

Kyungsoo waits once more.

It happens again, but he’s leaning on the other side, on the other shoulder of another stranger clad in a polyester overcoat, sitting opposite them. Kyungsoo holds his breath —

The boy catches himself again, and it strikes Kyungsoo somewhere deep, deep down. It’s odd. Why does he feel relieved?

Kyungsoo can hear the train rattling the tunnel from a distance. Cold envelops the station, the tips of Kyungsoo’s hands, everywhere, and in response to the sudden drop of temperature he shudders.

In a split second, the pendulum starts swinging once more, the mop of dark brown hair sloping dangerously low to Kyungsoo’s tiny frame. He hastily wipes away flecks of snowy dust on his coat, bracing himself, straightening his posture, biting his lip, inhaling —

The boy’s head finally lands on his shoulders.

He feels warm.

Kyungsoo sighs somewhat happily. He won after all.

 

~O~


	4. if it has to be someone, at least it’s you

**Title:** if it has to be someone, at least it’s you  
 **Summary:** Love starts when you’re young. – Kyungsoo/Jongin

~O~

“Can you hear me?” Kyungsoo whispers. His fingers taut the string further, making sure.

“I can hear you, Soo,” says the voice from the cup pressed firmly against Kyungsoo’s ear. “I always hear you.”

Sighing in relief, Kyungsoo eases to his chair. He gazes at the small hint of clouds from the outside, rolling ahead. “When will you be back?”

“About a month," Jongin says. "My parents are taking me to see my sister in Arizona. She’s getting married there.”

“Oh. Uhh, tell your sister I said hi," Kyungsoo says. "And congratulations."

The vibration from Jongin’s warm chuckle travels from the thin line and hums to Kyungsoo’s paper cup. A small smile spreads to Kyungsoo's face despite the sadness he suddenly feels. 

“I wish I could take you there." Jongin sighs. "It’s as dry and crusty as my mom’s morning toast, but there’re a lot of wild animals that you’ve never even heard of. I know you like animals.”

The window is wide open. Maybe if Kyungsoo looks up, he’d see Jongin at the other side, an arm perched on the wooden sill, talking and listening. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t attend your recital,” Jongin then says, after a long moment. “I know you’ve been looking forward to it ever since we were little.”

“It’s okay.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Really, really?”

And Kyungsoo laughs, his voice cracking somewhere in the middle and in the end. Maybe he sounds a bit hysterical, but Jongin joins along from the other line. Together they make the strangest harmony of happy laughter resonating in between two cups held together by a single, fragile piece of string.

“Remember the first time I confessed to you?” Jongin asks after the laughter dies down. “When I was eight and you were nine, and we were talking like this?”

Kyungsoo feels that familiar tug of sorrow crawl back again. “Yeah, Jongin," he whispers. "I do.”

“You laughed like that,” Jongin reminisces, and Kyungsoo wants to extend his hand to the other side of the road and pluck out the sad smile that is definitely hanging on the other’s lips. He’ll keep Jongin in his arms and throw that smile far, far away. “It’s nice to hear it again.”

“I like you, Kyungsoo. And umm… I’m not expecting an answer, really. I just — I want to remind you, in case you forget.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t be sad, okay?”

Kyungsoo shakes his head before realizing that Jongin couldn’t really see him, and he repeats another quiet “Okay”.

“Jongin-ah, I’ll miss you,” Kyungsoo adds as an afterthought, but there’s no answer, and the string has already gone limp. 

Jongin’s probably getting ready for bed.

~O~


	5. Insufferable

**Title:** Insufferable

 **Summary:** This boy can’t even leave him alone in his sleep. – Kyungsoo/Jongin.

~O~

 

And there he is again.

Kyungsoo can tell he is sighing in real life, can feel his chest wind up air, as the person in his dreams saunters closer to him.

None of the other ten members are there; it’s just the two of them, him and Jongin, and Kyungsoo has to sigh one more time.

This is what he dislikes the most every night: dreaming _._ The fact that he has to expend energy when he’s supposed to be resting is absurd, as if he’s never entitled to any break at all. He dislikes dreaming about SM, about training, about music shows and dodging various fireballs from sasaengs. He hates it when Baekhyun and Chanyeol spawn somewhere in between REM and three in the morning just to disturb him. Most of all, he doesn’t like catching himself thinking about scenarios that have a thousandths chance of happening.

But dreams of Kim Jongin are the absolute worst. They’re an unclear cut between harmless fantasies and sinful delusions, confusing hybrids of happy dreams and nightmares. They leave Kyungsoo breaking out in sweat with an unnerving sensation beneath his boxers, making him wish that, if he could will himself to stop dreaming altogether, he would.

The real life Jongin he can understand. The one who constantly, feverishly demands his attention, the one who has no sense of self-restraint. Unabashed. Charming. Completely harmless. At least in reality, Kyungsoo can always hide his eyes on the screen of his phone or at his tablet, pretending to watch a movie he’s probably seen over five times. But in his dreams Jongin is _much_ , much more handsome, more relaxed. Kyungsoo's subconscious would never give him the luxury of understanding how to handle this Jongin, staring at the depths of his soul with a strange glint in his eyes.

Dream Jongin makes the distance between them disappear with two dawdling steps. They’re in their room, in that small, shared space in the dormitory. Tonight Jongin is only wearing his pants. Kyungsoo breathes a sigh of relief. In some of his dreams, he’s not wearing anything at all.

He already knows what’s going to happen next, having this moment on repeat for the third time this week. Kyungsoo thinks of escaping — but to where? This is something he has no control over, and as the younger advances and holds his hand, he feels the hint of a surrender rising to his cheeks.

Jongin presses their hands together and whispers to his ear, “Hyung.”

And Kyungsoo jolts awake.

He’s no longer there, and before Kyungsoo’s eyes is only a semblance of a low ceiling shrouded in darkness, but dream Jongin has succeeded again in leaving his mark. The mattress from the bed beside his shudders every now and then, with Jongin snoring with aplomb, his hand hanging and swinging softly from the edge.

He sits up and wipes the sweat that accumulated on his nape. Kyungsoo has to remind himself not to be angry at the real Jongin. It’s not his fault anyway.

Kyungsoo drags himself towards the comfort room, leaning his head onto the white tiles. He twists the dial to _‘cold’_ morosely, ignoring the icy pricks of water on his bare back, and once again he tries to get rid of that maddening tingling in between his thighs. This is probably what he hates the most next to dreaming. He always feels sore in the end.

Grumbling and exhausted, he faceplants on his bed.

He doesn’t know anymore how long he’s going to survive in EXO.

 

~O~


	6. (ask me another time)

**Title:** (ask me another time)  
**Summary:** When Jongin asks Chanyeol’s opinion about his glasses - Chanyeol/Jongin

~O~

The first time Jongin asks Chanyeol a question, he doesn’t answer outright.

“How do I look?” Jongin says out of the blue.

It takes three seconds before Chanyeol looks up from his laptop. He’s been working on top-secret stuff, like composing ass-scraped songs for a children’s musical in an upcoming Family Day event and sending Kyungsoo lewd photographs of Baekhyun showering behind a semi-transparent shower curtain. So it takes also a few more seconds before he gets to react properly and not make a fool of himself.

Chanyeol whistles as he stops his typing. “The mail finally arrived, huh. Took them long enough.”

Jongin’s gaze flicker to the ceiling. “Air Mail took about… three months?” he says and counts with his fingers, pouting. His new, thick-rimmed, humongous glasses starts edging at the tip of his nose, and he absently arches it back with his thumb. Chanyeol wants to put his whole face in his palm. Jongin can be unbearably cute, sometimes. “Definitely longer than I expected. I’ve already finished The Great Expectations when the doorman slipped the package through Monggu’s dog panel.”

Chanyeol laughs, probably a bit too loudly. He’s probably smiling a bit too wide right now. Everybody says that.

Jongin doesn’t cringe, though, at Chanyeol’s booming cackle. Instead, the younger man slips beside the thin boundary of Chanyeol’s personal space and leans onto the edge of Chanyeol’s work table. Maybe Jongin’s gotten used to Chanyeol’s excessiveness.

“You haven’t been out of your room lately,” Jongin mumbles at Chanyeol’s keyboard. “Streaks of musical genius would probably cha-cha on your face if you’d take a break and eat something other than Cerelac.”

“Cerelac is cheaper than your usual cereal.” Chanyeol chuckles. “Besides, your hyung is still a growing boy.”

Jongin looks up and grins at him. “You’re all limbs and no brain, seriously. I only agreed to pay half of the rent and not babysit you twenty-four-seven.”

Chanyeol flicks Jongin’s forehead. “Yah. Who dragged you out of bed when you overslept last Thursday and saved you from missing half of your Econometrics lecture? Who cooks for you at four am in the morning when you’re suddenly craving for a bucket-full of buffalo wings like some chicken-crazed preggo?” Chanyeol counters.

Jongin’s attempt at a glare is floundered by the unmistakable twitching of his lips. “I should return the favor and make you eat something that’s recommended above 5+ years of age,” Jongin says. “There’s a new steak place that’s opening a few blocks from here. Won’t you go out with me, hyung?”

Chanyeol turns back to the electronic music sheets with all nineteen staffs drawn with a complete blank. He sighs. “I’d love to spread marinara sauce all over my face but.” He pulls a face. “Yixing wants this piece turned in two days from now, and I haven’t made any progress yet. I’m really sorry, Jongin-ah.”

Jongin’s never mastered Chanyeol’s unnecessary skill of hiding how he feels. His disappointment is clear as day, and Chanyeol figures that it’s okay to snake his fingers in between Jongin’s own and squeeze his hand reassuringly. Roommates do that all the time, right? Right.

Jongin shakes his head. “Not that I didn’t see that coming,” he says, and smiles softly at him. Chanyeol’s ears feel slightly hot. “Maybe Sehun’s free tonight. Good luck with… whatever that is, hyung.” He steps away from the table. “I’ll whip up something microwaveable for you and leave it at the table. And I’m keeping that disgusting baby food on lockdown until further notice.”

Chanyeol grins stupidly as he slips his hand off Jongin’s palm. “Don’t insult my primary means of sustenance, you twerp” he retorts, and Jongin laughs and laughs.

It takes Chanyeol back to that rainy evening where he first saw Jongin as a sophomore in college, living off on instant ramen at a 7-Eleven and looking so comfortable sleeping on the dirty tabletops of the convenience store. Chanyeol didn’t even think twice offering the poor kid the other room of his spacious apartment. He didn’t have a use for it, anyway, except for dumping broken musical instruments and cheesy love letters addressed to a pretty junior named Luna from the Broadway department.

Jongin also didn’t laugh that much before. So Chanyeol definitely likes this, definitely likes the way Jongin’s eyes disappear when he laughs. He’ll just have to settle this uncomfortable knotting in his gut some other time.

“You’ve never answered my first question, hyung,” Jongin says, still chuckling in between words.

“What?”

Jongin points to his glasses. “Does it look okay? I can’t go out like this tonight if I look like a complete dork. If I were going out with you, it would be fine.” Another laugh. “Whatever happens, I’d look downright magnificent. But since that shit Sehun’s coming with me instead…”

Chanyeol smiles. Smiles really, really wide, and perhaps it’s a tad creepy. He knows it throws people off most of the time, but Chanyeol always has this tendency to smile very wide when he has no idea what to do. “It’s not bad,” Chanyeol assures Jongin. His cheeks should be starting to ache by now, but Chanyeol had a lot of practice. “The ladies dig that oh-naturale hipster look nowadays.”

Jongin huffs and rolls his eyes before he directs his attention at his shoelaces. “I’m not asking if I’d hit it off with the girls, hyung. I’m asking if _you_ like it.”

Chanyeol is still smiling. “Why?” he says.

“I don’t know.” Jongin doesn’t sound unsure though, and his ears are starting to take up a couple of pink dust from somewhere. He’s still looking at the floor. “Does the oh-naturale hipster look sorta okay to you?”

Chanyeol’s heart suddenly takes up residence on his stomach. Sure, sure. Let that oh-naturale hipster look being huge black spectacles that magnify Jongin’s sleepy eyes, accentuate the strong angles of Jongin’s face, and match the rich, chocolate brown of Jongin’s skin. Perhaps it’s not only the ladies who would find that look adorable. 

Chanyeol sure can afford to be a bit more honest with himself. 

He nods. “It looks great on you," Chanyeol says. "You look handsome, really. You always look handsome, Jongin.”

Chanyeol hopes that he hasn’t said too much when Jongin goes quiet for a bit, and he dispels the awkwardness in the air by poking Jongin at the side with his monopod and cheering, “Now go out there and have a shit ton of fun with Sehun while it’s still technically a weekend! The clock is tick-tick-ticking!”

Jongin shuffles to the door by walking backwards, waving and smiling at him like the twenty-two-year-old dork that he is before shutting the door close. Chanyeol snorts fondly and continues pressing function buttons on his laptop.

 _Jongin should really be a bit more confident in himself_ , Chanyeol thinks as he waits for his jumpy heart to start calming down.

~O~


	7. (the disaster in chukbuk village)

**Title:**  (the disaster in chukbuk village)  
**Summary:**  The wolf always attacks at midnight. – Kyungsoo/Jongin; supernatural!AU  


~O~

  
  
“It is neither man nor animal,” Yixing whispers to the dead of the night. The watch guard tower was empty, and Yixing volunteered to keep an eye on the perimeter until the curse is lifted from Zitao, the previous guard. “How are you going to approach, this time?”  
  
The distant rumbling grows louder, and Jongin scowls at the forest. “With care,” he says. He discards his spear, and takes the bow and arrows nestling on the stack of hay that Zitao used as a pillow. He slings the quiver, the weight pressing heavily on his back.  
  
“The moon is full. It will serve as light,” Yixing says. “And hopefully as guidance. Take care, Jongin.”  
  
Jongin turns to give him a tight-lipped smile, before jumping off the window.  
  
Beyond the canopy are folds of dark, dark energy, lapping at the leaves and the branches of the linden and pine trees. With gritted teeth, Jongin waits at the other end of the meadow. A paw steps out of the shadows, sapping the life out of the thistle and ivy that borders the forest opening.  
  
Jongin gets assaulted by the waves of ferocity coming from the wolf, and he has to struggle to keep himself from bracing against his bow. He'll have to be in good position to try to keep the peace, or at least stall.  
  
Its eyes are a vivid red. Jongin can see his reflection swimming in them.   
  
Jongin rakes in a deep breath and takes a step forward. The wolf growls, snapping his jaw at him.  
  
“Great spirit,” Jongin says, keeping his voice low. He bows, and hopes that the wolf doesn’t bite his head off as he does so. It doesn’t.  
  
The wolf seems to regard him for a while, scarlet eyes on him. Its thick, black fur sucks the light of the moon, and the grass blades cling onto its legs and withers away after, seeking the comfort of death. It’s both a beautiful and a dreadful sight.  
  
Jongin steps a little closer again, and to his surprise, the wolf mimics him, closing the distance. This has never happened before to the other guards, and Jongin stops midway.  
  
He blinks thrice. For a while, he thought he saw the wolf grinning at him.  
  
“What has angered you, Great Spirit?” Jongin says. He holds out his arms. “What have we done?”  
  
The wolf doesn’t answer. Black liquid oozes from its paws, and Jongin wills himself not to submit the way the grass did.  
  
“Will you tell us?” Jongin tries again. “We will right our mistakes. You need not attack the village. Please.”  
  
The wolf seems to scoff at him. Blood roars in his ears, as it lunges at him with lightning speed. Jongin is still with fear, when its mouth presses to the side of his face. The wolf’s breath is sickeningly sweet.  
  
_Will you be their lamb, warrior?_  A voice rings in Jongin’s head, a rich baritone, and Jongin blanches without thinking. It almost sounds like –  
  
The wolf pulls away, letting out a loud, string of breaths. It’s chuckling, much to Jongin’s horror.  
  
And then the wolf leaps forward, running.   
  
Jongin chases it, loading his arrow as he goes. He curses himself for letting his guard down as the wolf bunts its head against boulders that once served as a blockade. They are now smashed into tiny chunks of rock.  
  
Jongin lets his arrow fly, but it misses, hitting and embedding on the scaffolding of the watch tower.  
  
“The spirit is heading straight to the village again!” Yixing yells at him from up high. “Hurry, Jongin, but do not let it bite you!”  
  
Jongin zooms through the meadow, jumping from one rock to another. He aims at the rear of the wolf and fires, but misses once more. He runs, and he’s close enough that he hears the screaming of the villagers as the wolf enters the boundaries.  
  
“Stop! I beg you, Great Spirit, do not attack the village!” Jongin yells. A sharp object grazes his cheek, and he hisses. “What has fueled your rage? We wish to help!”  
  
The wolf ignores him and breaks through the gates. The barrels of rice wine flip through the air as it forges on, and the women shriek as the wild spirit destroys all the stalls with its glistening sharp teeth one by one.  
  
Another guard, trembling from head to toe, throws its spear at the spirit, but its tail whips and snaps the weapon in half.  
  
The chickens cluck in pure terror, and the wolf has destroyed another stall that holds the cabbages. The owner, Doohwan ahjussi, wails, “Great Spirit, do not harm us!”  
  
_Filthy_ , the wolf’s voice singes through the cloud of Jongin’s thoughts. He watches as it wades through the pen, the muck clinging to its feet as the pigs cower at the corner.  _Filthy._  
  
“What does it want, Jongin?” Jongdae, one of the guards who had been injured the last time the wolf striked, limps to him frantically, and Jongin halts his running. “I saw the spirit talking to you from the borders. What did it say?”  
  
A shiver runs through Jongin’s spine. “It… it desires a lamb. A sacrifice.”  
  
Jongdae’s eyes bulge. “But we have oxen! We do not raise lambs!”  
  
The animal continues to pommel through the village until it reaches the water tank. It rams his head onto the foundations. The men try their best to inch closer with their spears and machetes, but the wolf snaps at them and they all back away, afraid to be bitten.  
  
Jongin climbs to the roof of the hut, ragged nails digging through wood. He jumps from one roof to another, and crouches low at the one spot he thinks he can get a clear shot. He takes another arrow from his quiver and fires.  
  
It’s a hit, straight to the heart, and a piercing howl rips through the midnight air. The men gasp as the wolf staggers back, growling in what seems to be pain.   
  
The wolf speeds through the picket fences and knocks it down. Jongin jumps from the roof and lands on the ground with a loud, metallic clang coming from the protective shackles on his wrists. He shimmies through the crowd of villagers studying the trail of blood that seems to head towards the riverside.  
  
“You killed it!” Jongin hears one of the villagers yelp as he comes closer, and another man hushes him.  
  
“You are wrong. Spirits are immortal,” the man with a flowing, white beard says gravely. “They cannot be killed.”  
  
“Let the young warrior through,” Yesung, the leader of the group, says. He turns to Jongin. “I will calm the rest. Go and ensure that the village is safe.”  
  
Jongin nods. “Yes, my lord.”  
  
He follows the trail, the blood thickening with every step he goes. A raven squawks at him as he passes by, and he goes slower when he thinks he hears the rush of the river and an inhuman groan behind the rows of butterfly bushes. He hesitates, before clearing the place with his dagger. He sheathes it back when a harsh scent makes him tear up.  
  
He goes in deeper, and spots the end of his arrow on the ground, coated in blood.  
  
Jongin stops when he reaches the river, and there’s a man sitting on the bank. There’s a puncture on his chest, blood trickling down to his lap.   
  
His eyes are a vivid red. Jongin can see his reflection swimming in them.  
  
“A lamb bites a wolf,” the stranger says. His lips do not move, but Jongin hears his voice in Jongin’s mind, anyway. “This is a first time.” The man smirks, and his wide eyes begin to glow.  
  
He stands up, and he’s about half a head shorter than Jongin. His gait is like a boy’s, but the expression he wears is a man’s. The darkness embraces him like a lover.  
  
Jongin’s knees go weak.  
  
“You are not a spirit,” Jongin says with a small voice, and the man smirks even more.  
  
He shakes his head, as if he’s amused, straight tufts of black hair fringing his thick eyebrows. His black blood drips to his toes and flows with the water of the river.  
  
“Surprise me again, warrior,” the man says, and the air suddenly smells of ozone. The hair on Jongin’s nape and arms stand up until a blast of black knocks Jongin out and sends him flying.   
  
His back hits a tree trunk, and he groans in pain. He slinks to the forest floor, crushing the knapweeds underneath him, and all he hears is a ghostly laugh.  
  
The man is gone.  
  
Jongin’s face pales as he tries to stand up, gaping at the spot where the man has vanished. Soot circles the river bank. An emblem.  
  
“He is not a spirit,” Jongin says to the river. He’s heard the stories, the ones looming over his ears since he was a kid. Heard the tales of mourning wives and the sound of pleading travelers in the heart of Hakaeju forest.  
  
Jongin inhales sharply. “The earth demon of the east,” he whispers. The first Oracle had called him – “Kyungsoo. You are Kyungsoo.”  
  
A distant voice in Jongin’s head hums with honey pleasure, and Jongin’s shoulders quake.  _Ready your lamb,_  the wind mumbles to him, and the air stills again.  
  
The sun will be up in an hour, and Jongin heads back.  
  
  


~O~

 


	8. and when winter comes, i'll still think of you

**Title:**  and when winter comes, i’ll still think of you  
**Summary:** Jongin meets him in a graveyard. – Kyungsoo/Jongin  
  
  


~O~

  
  
The sun glows faintly.  
  
Tendrils of smoke cling to the seams of Jongin’s shirt, the smell of burnt grass acrid and harsh in his eyes. He waits for the wind to blow it away – it does, and the ashes spread thin across the dreary expanse.  
  
Jongin takes out a notebook and a pen from his paper bag and crosses out the mark of the burial ground. Three X’s. Three forgone missions.  
  
He kneels in front of a headstone. A crown of baby’s breath and chrysanthemums has long since wilted.  _Lee Hyemi. 1989 – 2016._  Jongin jots down the other details in his notebook and forges on to the peripheries.  
  
He then arrives at the oldest part of the cemetery, and the place is so rundown and depressing that any attempt of refurbishing equates to “a fucking waste of taxpayer money”. It’s not like there would be any visitors, they said – those who cared about the people who died in the 1920s and 30s are all dead now, anyway. Jongin gazes sadly at the crippled limestone, his fingers tracing the inscriptions that were already eaten away by the rain. Marble and granite were expensive way, way back, he remembers.  
  
He pushes back his cotton sleeves and squints hard at the stone, trying to make out a name. “Uhhh…” He crouches closer, careful not to breathe on the calcite directly. “Do… Do? Do Keng… Do Kengsu –”  
  
“It’s Do Kyungsoo,” a voice from behind him says suddenly.  
  
Jongin’s heart slams to his chest, and he screams loudly, pitifully, that the ravens from a far, far away oak tree screech at him in retaliation.  
  
_Oh my god, oh my god._  Jongin clamps a hand to his mouth. The man-boy is staring at him oddly, with the tip of his lips curling in vague amusement. The sight steadies Jongin for a while, and he clenches his fist over his drumming heart.  
  
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” The stranger’s eyes flash a peculiar white-blue, and sure, he might not mean any harm at all, but Jongin’s heart won’t stop pounding so hard –  
  
The man sits next to him on the grass, and Jongin’s heart explodes. "1925 to 1951. Last day of December, harshest snowstorm in Suwon. Obedient son. Loving family. ‘Valiance in the face of fear’, or something like that,” he continues with a soft voice, a whisper of winter, and then purses his lips. “Aren’t you going to write that down?”  
  
“Ahh, y-yes.” Jongin quickly uncaps his pen and scribbles at the margins of the map he made in his tiny notebook. He feels the man’s larger-than-life eyes follow every stroke of his hand, every dip and blotch of ink on third-grade paper. After he finishes, he dares himself to look up.  
  
Jongin takes in the roundness of his face, the inhuman whiteness of his skin, the mighty gash running at the side of his neck, glinting red and miserable, but Jongin knows instinctively that there won’t be any blood dripping from the wound any time soon. There’s a soft glow around him, almost like a second skin. He’s dressed in a cream dress shirt and slacks. Underdressed for a gala, but a bit too formal for someone lurking around a muddy graveyard. His pale pink plush lips are stretched together as he watches Jongin drink him in.  
  
Jongin swallows thickly. “What’s your name?” he says.  
  
The man flashes him a look, and Jongin gulps even more.  
  
“What’s your name?” the stranger throws back the question serenely, beetle-thick eyebrows raised curiously.  
  
“J-Jongin,” Jongin blurts. “Kim Jongin.” He makes a quick bow, and the stranger – Do Kyungsoo – returns it with a perfect, ninety-degree bow of his own. “Umm, hi. Hello.”  
  
“Hello, Jongin.” And Jongin’s chest squeezes when Kyungsoo gives him a tiny smile.  
  
This shouldn’t come as a surprise, if Jongin’s being honest. It’s been years since he’s seen his first spirit - it’s been fifteen years exactly since Jongin had played around the monkey bars in the community playground, before he saw a girl in a blue dress crying non-stop and wailing for someone to help her plant camellias near the sandbox. Jongin had been gracious enough to help, until her mother yanked him out of the sandbox and demanded to know who he was talking to.  
  
Psychology dictated it was imaginary friends. Biology said it was the brain adjusting to the sudden overload of sensory stimuli. Jongin sucks at math, but two and two just won’t add up whenever he sees a man with a dismembered head in the middle of daylight asking him out for a drink.  
  
It goes without saying that he kept the supernatural stuff a secret for years. All everybody knows is that he has this weird, unhealthy obsession for the dead. What’s a smart, handsome, twenty-two-year-old doing with his life, anyway, studying tombs and rotting bodies in funeral parlors? It’s much safer for Jongin to say that his interest lies in Medicine and Forensics in general, and that the whole  _I-can-talk-to-dead-people_ shebang he has going on has nothing to do with it.  
  
Jongin shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Do Kyungsoo has graced him with his presence. Now’s not the time to be rude and ogle at the spirit like a kid. “So umm… you died during the Korean War?”  
  
Kyungsoo nods somberly. “It was an accident, I think. I was out to buy bread and fish for the market but then…” His face crumples. “Something blew up. I remember a flash. I don’t know… I can’t -”  
  
“It’s fine, Do Kyungsoo-ssi,” Jongin interrupts hastily, almost reaching out until he realizes that he’s not supposed to touch him, or any ghost at all. “I was – I was just curious. You don’t have to tell me.”  
  
“Okay,” Kyungsoo mumbles. His lips form a gentle heart when he smiles. He’s handsome, Jongin thinks in despair.  
  
The wind settles, the autumn leaves starting to pool around their feet. One week and it’ll be almost winter. It makes Jongin think of December 1951, and the snow blanketing the peninsula. Do Kyungsoo was twenty-six when he died.  
  
“You’re older than me,” Jongin supplies to break the chilly silence. Kyungsoo’s probably the quietest spirit he’s ever met. “By four years. In physical time, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Kyungsoo parrots with a hint of a smile in his voice. He cups his chin in between the slope of his knees pulled together. “You’ve accomplished more than I did, though, when I was your age,” he then adds. “I’m jealous.”  
  
Jongin’s heart clenches again a bit painfully. He’s always found dead people more honest than their crazy counterparts. He makes a mistake of glancing sideways, taking in the way Kyungsoo is curled up in a ball with his frayed black slacks and bitten down fingernails, and his stomach drops and rolls all over the grass-green hills.  
  
Surprisingly, Kyungsoo offers a piece in the conversation. “Why are you out here on your own, Jongin-ssi?” he says. “Writing down burial histories and making graveyard maps?”  
  
Jongin, for a split-second, considers telling him his usual Medicine-Forensics bullshit, but then he gets to peer into the depth of Kyungsoo’s eyes. They are more alive than Jongin would have expected. He replies a bit shamefully, “It’s... interesting. You guys are interesting.”  
  
Kyungsoo turns to him, bemused. “Really?” Eyebrows furrowed. Unearthly glowing skin. Wet, enticing lips. Jongin doesn’t know where to look.  
  
“I feel more comfortable, talking to you guys,” Jongin admits to his sneakers. “It’s not like there’s anything the living people can offer me, right? I don’t know. I’m kind of a freak.” He laughs shakily. He remembers being thirteen, remembers being in a neighborhood with kids whispering about how shy and unusual he was. It kind of hurt. “I guess I just feel… a little left out around here.”  
  
Kyungsoo frowns deeply. “Oh. I umm, I’m not sure if I should say that I feel the same way, since I’m dead and all,” he says, before chuckling a little. “But us spirits, we do feel kinda lonely too. Sometimes. Most of the time. Every time. Maybe we’re meant to be, you know. To comfort each other.”  
  
Jongin offers the elder a smile of his own. “I guess so,” he whispers. He likes that Kyungsoo’s being such a positive reinforcement right now, when Jongin’s honestly a bit down and bogged about where he’s supposed to go from here. He’s starting to feel like a spirit himself, floating away with nothing strong or heavy enough to anchor him to the world. The usual ghost would endlessly natter about how awful it is being dead. Jongin decides that he really likes Kyungsoo. “Thanks, Kyungsoo-ssi,” he says sincerely.  
  
And then the spirit does something unexpected.   
  
Kyungsoo experimentally touches Jongin’s arm with his fingers, and Jongin feels like somebody has doused him with Artic water all over, and the violent shudders that overtake him are not something he can hide. Kyungsoo visibly panics and retracts his hand immediately, as if Jongin’s reaction electrocuted him somehow.  
  
“I’m sorry!” Kyungsoo yelps, blanching. His eyes are scarily wide as he bows repeatedly and scoots away. “I didn’t know that was – I’m terribly sorry, Jongin-ssi. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”  
  
_Wait, don’t –_  
  
“Hey, wait! Kyungsoo-ssi, it’s fine!” Jongin says as he crawls near Kyungsoo on all fours, dirtying his jeans in the process. He stops until there’s not much of a distance left between them. “I – I just got startled. Please don’t go away.”  
  
Kyungsoo stares at him for a while, a little afraid and unsure, until he settles back into a curled ball again. Jongin wonders if this is Kyungsoo’s first time ever with a human after sixty-eight years of being dead.  
  
“Sorry,” Kyungsoo mumbles again, more morosely. His hair falls as a thick, jet-black mop on his forehead, on his nape, on the shell of his ear, sucking the orange stream of sunset in its darkness. Kyungsoo is very, very cold next to him.  
  
Jongin clears his throat. “It’s fine. Don’t be.” He looks at Kyungsoo’s wayward hands on his knees. He recalls the sudden icy winter he felt.   
  
He wants to touch Kyungsoo again.  
  
So he does. He slowly envelops Kyungsoo’s fingers in his palm, waiting for the other man to protest. When he doesn’t, Jongin continues to hold him there, close and tight, until the great spasms he gets from Kyungsoo’s freezing temperature quiet into tiny tremors. Slowly, the trembling completely dies down, and he feels nothing but his own satisfaction of being this close to a spirit.  
  
Jongin examines their entwined fingers under the light of the setting sun. “Usually, your kind doesn’t like being touched by humans. There was one who threatened to push me off the terrace when I accidentally brushed his shoulder,” he explains to the other man. “I know that goes against every horror story crafted on earth, but I saw spirits lashing out if anything warm and utterly alive comes into contact with them.”  
  
“I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Kyungsoo says, wiggling his fingers, like he’s getting used to having Jongin pressed against them. “I miss feeling the heat. You are very warm.”  
  
“And you are very cold,” Jongin answers, smiling. Kyungsoo tilts his head to look at him, questioning, and Jongin laughs. “Spring is actually my favorite season, but your kind of cold isn’t so bad.”  
  
Kyungsoo quickly pulls his head down. “Maybe,” he mutters, too quiet that almost Jongin didn’t hear.  
  
Another brand of silence passes. Jongin quickly learns that Kyungsoo only talks when he’s asked, and when he’s already ran out of questions, they both settle with lying across the prickly grass and watching the sky turn dark. As the sky starts its evening mourn, Kyungsoo tells him of the last thing he saw before he died.  
  
“It was the Star of David, embroidered in a blanket over a bushel basket,” Kyungsoo says in a hushed tone.  
  
“What does it mean?”  
  
“I don’t know – should it mean anything?”  
  
Jongin shrugs. “It’s the last thing you remembered you saw. Maybe it does. To you.”  
  
Kyungsoo licks his lips. He looks ahead contemplatively. “I guess I’ll think about it.”  
  
“Tell me when you’ve figured it out,” Jongin says, and it leaves a hollow mark in his chest as soon as he says it. Kyungsoo’s smile looks really nice. He’d love to see it more than once, if he could. Spirits don’t appear before him twice, but there could always be an exception, right? There has to be.  
  
He tries his best to keep himself awake, but the autumn-winter wind proves to be too much, and he falls into the comfort of Kyungsoo’s loud silence and icy hand against his. He already knew from the start that it’ll be gone in the morning, just like a routine, but he still wishes it won’t.   
  
In silent rebellion, Jongin leans a bit closer than usual and drapes his arm around Kyungsoo’s shoulders, propping the older man up. Kyungsoo, however, doesn’t look at him.  
  
“You’re so warm,” he thinks Kyungsoo whisper despondently to no one in particular, but Jongin isn’t sure. He’s very tired.  
  


~O~

  
  
Jongin finally rouses when a canary pokes its beak at his cheek. He blinks hard, blinks more than he should, and turns to his right.  
  
No one’s beside him, no outline of anyone lying with him on the grass since the start of yesterday’s sunset. Jongin’s throat constricts horribly, and his chest clenches and unclenches and clenches again. He slowly slips his notebook and pen back in his paper bag. He feels like he’s floating away again. It feels terrible.   
  
There’s only six days left until winter comes.  
  
  


~O~

 


	9. (it's the little ones that matter)

**Title:** (it’s the little ones that matter)

 **Summary:** “The Sorting Hat wanted me to be in Gryffindor, though.” – Kyungsoo/Jongin

~O~

 

“Erm, can I take a look at that book?”

The bespectacled boy looks up to Jongin, and he feels something unnamable slide disturbingly to his spine. Maybe it’s the way the boy’s silkworm eyebrows rise up slightly, pitch black eyes regarding him, like he’s sizing him up. Jongin gulps.

“The librarian said you borrowed the last copy of _Dungthugs and Dweedlers: A History_ , and I have a Charms test tomorrow – I’m sorry for disturbing you, but—"

Much to his relief, the boy slides him the thick, worn book wordlessly before he has any more chances to trip himself with his own ramblings. Jongin takes the intimidating volume in his hands.

“Uhh, thank you,” Jongin tells him dumbly.

The guy nods. “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

He is somewhat taken aback at the deep, earthy voice coming from the Slytherin boy’s tiny frame. This time, he cannot help but stare.

The boy stares back, arching a delicate eyebrow once again. “You won’t sit?” he asks.

“I—uhhh.” Jongin sits.

The Slytherin boy seems to be holding back a laugh, amused at Jongin’s blatant display of indecisiveness. He then peruses a fresh roll of parchment and continues inking line after line with the finest shade of black Jongin has ever seen.

Jongin fumbles along with his own things. The sound of books, quills, ink bottles and scrolls meeting the mahogany tabletop seems to occupy the entire library, thunderous, like three thousand hippocampi bulldozing each other in Archer’s Peak. His cheeks redden considerably at this.

After fifteen minutes, it’s Jongin again who breaks the silence. “You’re Do Kyungsoo, aren’t you?” he says, feeling unequivocally stupid for asking even though he already knows the answer.

The small heart-shaped smile Jongin receives confirms this. “Yeah,” the boy, Kyungsoo, replies. His tone is cheerless. “How did you know? I don’t think you’re in my year…”

“I’m a year below, but I always see your name on top of the list during exams. The Ravenclaw seniors always seem to grumble about you.”

Kyungsoo looks genuinely surprised at this. He eyes the honey badger pinned on Jongin’s robes. “You’re from the Hufflepuff house? Not a lot of Hufflepuffs pay attention to that.”

 “I just happen to pass by the ranking list every now and then since it’s always posted near our common room, and your last name’s a very unusual one so it sort of sticks.”

“And by that you mean you’ve heard about my family.”

Jongin breathes out a chuckle awkwardly. “That too.” He can’t deny the rumors circling the Do family, one of the oldest pureblood lineages in the wizarding world. They’re known for the heaps of galleons stacked in Gringotts, notorious for dominating the black market of magical creatures and outlawed potions. Sphizard harpoons. A flask of Buranicus blood. You name it.

“Yet you’re here, sitting next to me.” Kyungsoo smiles. It’s an odd smile, with only one side curving upwards like a feline smirk. It’s eerie and unsettling, but Jongin prefers it over the expressionless visor that greeted him earlier. “Are you sure you’re in the right house?”

“The Sorting Hat wanted me to be in Gryffindor, though.” Jongin replies meekly, fiddling with the string of buttons on his black-gold robe. “But I don’t know. I can’t even refuse when they asked me to become a prefect when I didn’t even want to be one. I don’t think I have a single brave bone in my body.”

Kyungsoo stops to think about it before asking, “What’s your name?”

“Kim Jongin.”

“Well, Kim Jongin of the Hufflepuff house,” Kyungsoo peers at him through his brown-rimmed spectacles, “No one in my year, even a fellow Slytherin, ever dares to say a word to me lest they be ostracized. No one ever takes the risk of being seen with me; let alone sitting next to me.” He says this rather slowly, enunciating every syllable with care, and Jongin unconsciously watches the measured dipping of his lips, mesmerized.

Kyungsoo smiles at him a little wider, softer. “Bravery comes in different forms, I guess.”

Jongin flushes.

Kyungsoo pulls the leather cords of his book bag. He rummages through neat, ordered files heavily blotched with ink, and hands a thick roll of lemony parchment. “It’s a summary of Dungthugs and Dweedlers. I’ve highlighted all of the important points when I was a fifth year. Just read through it and you’ll pass.”

“I –“ Jongin doesn’t know what to say.

Kyungsoo flashes him a toothy grin, and proceeds to finishing his Charm’s essay on _Ten Ways to Prevent a Skullfish from Dimorphing._

Jongin does nothing but gape at the side profile of his hyung for one good minute until he remembers he’s being too much for social adequacy, and opts to flipping through the pages of his book to prevent further offense.

The scroll in his hand is searing through his palm. He decides he’ll thank the nice Slytherin senior by getting a good result on tomorrow’s exam.

Jongin scoots a little closer to the table until their knees bump together. Both Kyungsoo and Jongin pretend not to notice this.  

 

~O~


	10. it only took seven days and a monday

**Title:** it only took seven days and a monday

 **Summary:** There’s nothing grand about having a new neighbor. Or at least, maybe like love, it doesn’t need to be grand at all. – Kyungsoo/Jongin

~O~

 

On Monday, Kyungsoo wakes up an hour earlier than usual, packs his briefcase, and takes the long walk to school. It’s one of the many aimless routines he's accustomed to, the beginning of every week.   
  
After school, when he’s done with draggy meetings and confused students asking questions after class and marking homework he’d procrastinated on the week before, Kyungsoo makes his way home to his little apartment. It’s a quiet development - boring is the best way to put it, but peace and quiet is the kind of thing that he needs to get used to now that he’s no longer a teenager.  
  
On Tuesday, the perpetual peace and quiet is disrupted by a moving truck parked on the road outside the apartment complex. There are two movers, and as Kyungsoo climbs up to the second storey, he realizes that someone’s finally moving into the room next to his. He lingers at the open door, adjusting the frames of his spectacles.   
  
One glance into the other empty room with paint peeling off the walls is enough for him to tell that the poor soul is going to have a hard time with refurnishing. When one of the movers gives him a questioning eyebrow raise, Kyungsoo drones out a ‘hello’ before disappearing into his room.  
  
On Wednesday, he’s nearly late for work. He decides to catch the seven fifteen bus, and dashes up the street to the bus stop. There, he spots a face he’s never seen before - a young man, chewing thoughtlessly on a piece of toast, his mocha-chocolate hair standing up against the wind. He’s examining the bus schedule, but he’s not wearing a school uniform.  
  
Kyungsoo spends the bus ride down to school thinking about the boy with the toast in his mouth - if he’s not a high schooler, then maybe he’s a university student?  
  
On Thursday, he gets his answer. He arrives home to find his new neighbor pacing up and down the hallway of the second floor. There is no toast in his mouth this time. Instead, there is a pencil and a floor plan in his hands.   
  
"Hey. You. You look familiar," is the first thing he says to him. His voice is soft and clipped, and makes Kyungsoo think of sparrows in the spring.   
  
"That’s because I’m your neighbor," Kyungsoo tells him, frowning a little. The boy is speaking informal with him already. Maybe he’s not from around the city.   
  
"Oh. No wonder," his neighbor replies, sounding a little dazed.  
  
"Do you need help with something?"   
  
The boy pauses. He looks at the floor plan, then into his untouched apartment. He turns to Kyungsoo and asks, “What do you think of shooting stars?”  
  
On Friday, they go to buy the necessary paint and end up having dinner at Kyungsoo’s favorite ramen place in the neighborhood. He pays for the dinner and the boy pays for the coffee afterwards.  
  
On Saturday, he knocks on Kyungsoo’s door, asking about furniture this time.  
  
On Sunday, Kyungsoo spends the day mapping out the layout of the boy’s new apartment with him. They lose track of time, and have to order sushi in. When he laughs, Kyungsoo cannot imagine peace and quiet ever returning to this boring old apartment.  
  
“What’s your name, by the way?” Kyungsoo asks, thinking that it would be the best time to replace the nebulous ‘My Neighbor’ title in his phone book.  
  
The boy grins, the glint in his eye telling him, _about time_.  
  
“Kim Jongin,” he says with a mouthful of sushi. “But you can call me whatever you want, hyung.”  
  
On Monday, Jongin takes the bus, and Kyungsoo does not take that long walk to school.

 

~O~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
